Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; Then up and spake young Tennyson--'Who's here that fears for death?

'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

'Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;-- For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; 'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German _Dichters_ too, If none of British song might dare a deed of _derring-do_!'

'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;'

Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!'

'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!'

'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, {160} good at need,-- 'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.

I second Alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,-- Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!

'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,-- The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,-- How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!

On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.

'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim The b.u.t.t of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!'

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?

His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.

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'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.

But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.'

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.

Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!'

'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?'

Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady.

Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!'

'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just!

Or Wordsworth's h.o.a.ry head must roll along the shameful dust!

'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son.

'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!'

'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!'

Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe.

'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!'

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!"

The Royal Banquet.

BY THE HON. G--- B--- S---.

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined n.o.bles all; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

"What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine, And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!"

Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers, "G.o.d bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!"

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!

They pa.s.sed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; And Lyndhurst, with a n.o.ble thirst, that nothing could appease, Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.

"What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord Aberdeen, "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between?

I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?"

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, "Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside?

Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, And now like frantic Baccha.n.a.ls run wild through London town!"

"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place!

"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre; And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar?

The hero of a hundred fights--" Then Wellington up sprung, "Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue!

"By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of a.s.saye!

'Tis hard that for thy l.u.s.t of place in peace we cannot dine.

Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pa.s.s the wine!"

"No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the Lord of Vaux; "Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know.

Even I myself--" Then rose the cry--"A song, a song from Brougham!"

He sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room.

The Bard of Erin's Lament.

BY T--- M---RE, ESQ.

Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!